


Ten of Swords

by forthewidowsinparadise



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Aerialist!Ian, Alternate Universe - Circus, Angst, AnimalCaretaker!Mickey, Character Death, Crimes & Criminals, Dark Past, Drama, M/M, Mystery, Psychological Trauma, Smut, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:09:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24193351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthewidowsinparadise/pseuds/forthewidowsinparadise
Summary: Having run from a life of domestic abuse, Mickey Milkovich has been travelling with the circus as an animal handler for just over a decade. He had found a family of others desperately running from haunted pasts and animals just as trapped as their handlers. He lives in a comfortable routine until the ringmaster hires a fiery redheaded sex worker with an incredible talent for the silks.He falls in love and, consequently, falls into the web of dark, dangerous secrets that follow Ian wherever he goes.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 20
Kudos: 36





	1. The Redhead

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: Warnings will be applied on a chapter-by-chapter basis.  
> Chapter Warning(s):  
> \- Mentions of child abuse

Mickey saw God as a father. As _his_ father, the one who created him, only to make him a slave to a life he never asked to lead. Like his father, God did nothing when he cried. God gave him bruises. God gave him molestation and neglect. God beat him to the ground.

God was his father, which is why he so readily burned bibles to keep the tigers warm in the late-autumn frost. 

“Don’t you think that’s bad juju, kid?” Demitri, the oldest animal handler still under the big top chuckles, watching his former trainee throw another leather-bound book into the furnace. “Burning holy texts is generally frowned upon. Tied to genocide and shit.”

“Fuck that.” Mickey spits. “You know what _I_ frown upon? Fuckin’ Christian missionaries donating a load of bibles to a fuckin’ _travelling circus._ They think we need Jesus because we’re a bunch of freaks and delinquents? Who d’ya think _decided_ that? Uppity fuckers like them are what pushed most of us out of society in the first place.”

Amused, Demitri took a drag of his cigarette. He’d known Mickey since 1899. He was a muddy ten-year-old, found huddled in the back of the elephant crate when the circus crossed the border from Illinois to Indiana. That was eleven years ago--almost to the day--and yet he still found humour in the younger man’s aggression. He liked to egg Mickey on. “Uppity fuckers like them is also how we get paid, so what does it matter?” 

Prodding the angry mix of coal and holy papers, Mickey flips Demitri off. “Yeah, whatever, old man.” 

“That’s what I thought.” Demitri laughs, emptying the last of his beer down his throat before heaving himself onto his feet. “Poker tent will be set up soon, want to go down and see if the boys need any help?”

Mickey picks a strip of paper from the furnace and uses the burning end to light another cigarette. “Nah.” He mumbles. “Still got a coupl’a things to do around here. Meet you there in a bit.” 

“Alright, kid. Don’t forget to get the hooch out back before you come over.”

Mickey grunts as Demitri’s balding head disappears from the crate, and he takes a moment to watch the paper finish burning in his hands. _Peter 2:18,_ reads the waning script, _Slaves, in reverent fear of God submit yourselves to your masters, not only to those who are good and considerate, but also to those who are harsh._ Mickey scoffs and tosses it back into the fire. “Fucking slaves. All of us.”

He meant it. Everyone he had ever met was a slave to something or someone. Maybe they weren’t in shackles or chains but, in his book, even those without a master weren’t free, just in ignorant bliss. Mickey? He considered his masters to be the great white giants who rule over nameless rats, building then destroying with bloodied bills and belt buckles. He was a slave to man’s hierarchy of power: billionaires have power over corporations have power over the government has power over the wealthy suburbanites have power over the poor everyman. Mickey’s father, as did many a poor man, found his power in abusing the powerless. 

As Mickey closes the door to the tiger cages behind him, the claw marks in the floor remind him of gunshot hardwood. Filling the water troughs reminds him of vodka, and the sight of large teeth in sleeping mouths reminds him of the direness of tiptoeing in the night. But, even though he trod through the straw with his large boots, the tigers didn’t wake. That’s why Mickey ran away with the circus: one visit eleven years ago showed him that animals were different.

Yes, they fight. They kill each other and prey on weaker animals. They know power but, to them, power is survival, and so is love. Mickey had never known a human to love, and running away from power is the only way he’d survived up until now. Humans had ruined Mickey, so he only loved his animals, never a man. He didn’t know if he ever could.

“Night Bruno. Night Mila.” He says to the tigers, locking the cage back up again. He steps out of the crate and into the bitterness of the Chicago air. It didn’t really faze him much anymore, being in his hometown; in two weeks they’d be in another city anyway, so what did it matter? The only thing he disliked was the cold, wrapping his lined denim jacket tight over his chest and walking briskly towards the poker tent. “Thank God.” He muttered to himself, noticing the strings of sizzling hot bulbs above him. “Fucking lazy assholes finally set up the lights.”

He sees silhouettes moving inside worn, striped tents and through windows of corrugated metal trailers, all laughing and chattering drunkenly. He ducks behind one of the trailers and drags a cold, metal barrel from its spot next to the septic tank. He wished he’d worn gloves as he pried off the lid, which had been inscribed by a screwdriver: _Demitri’s Big Barell of Poysin. For poker niht ONLY!_

“One, two, three...:” He counted the gallon bottles left in the barrel for inventory, before grabbing one. It smelled pungently of rubbing alcohol and monkey piss, but Mickey--despite only Demitri and a few other carnies agreeing--has always asserted that it tastes much better than it smells. He goes to take a sip before Demitri can get his hands on the jug, when his eye catches the draping entrance of the ringmasters tent. Dishevelled and underdressed for the weather, a tall, anxious-looking man steps out onto the gravel. His short-sleeve shirt was buttoned askew, and his red hair was shaggy and sex whipped. He wipes his powdered white nose in his hand, then his hand on his jeans and lights a cigarette. Mickey scoffs.

 _A redhead? That’s a new one for Lischmann._ Mickey thought, pausing in the shadow of the trailer. Master Lischmann, the ringmaster and owner of the circus--Mickey’s boss--had a reputation as a sex hound more feral than any actual dog. Men or women, free or paid for: Lischmann always had someone in his tent. Though, for as much as he treated America as a sexual sampling platter, he did have a type. Wild and young, the seedier the better. This guy seemed to fit that criteria pretty well but still, Mickey had never seen someone stumble out of the tent white as a candle with a flame on the wick. 

He was about to move on when he noticed something else strange about Lischmann’s evening meal. He was taking in the scenery. Usually, the ringmaster’s conquests scurry off at a brisk walk at best--a full-on run, at worst--but this man looks as though he’s taking a breath of the greasy, tobacco-filled air. Mickey watches him look left, then look right, then take a cautious step further into the circus. Mickey furrows his brow: what business does a sex worker have going to the big top in the middle of the night? Curious, he slinks along the shadowed parts of the pathway. The redhead walks with a jumpiness to him, checking for any prying eyes every few seconds. Mickey has a hard time keeping up with him while also staying quiet enough not to prick his ears. 

The man walks all the way to the entrance of the big top, checking his surroundings one last time before slipping in through the large vinyl flaps. Mickey shuffles up to the tent, waiting a couple moments before slowly opening a crack in the door. He leans in to peek when a booming voice startles him. 

“Mikhailo!” 

Clutching his chest, Mickey hears the scrape of feet on gravel inside the tent and the loud smack of someone flying through the back entrance. _Fuck._ He seethed, grieving something interesting as he turned to see Yegor walking towards him.

The heavily accented clown raises his hand in greeting, eyes still red from scrubbing off his makeup at the end of the day. “ _Zdravstvuyte_ my Ukrainian brother! On the way to poker night?” 

“Fuck Yegor, you scared the shit out of me. Yeah I’m going to poker I just...” He thumbs the entrance to the big top, but hesitates. Most likely, the redhead was just snooping around for something to snort, spend or sell--it wasn’t a big deal, but for some reason, Mickey felt compelled to hide what he’d seen. “I thought I saw a rat go into the big top.” He says instead. “Boss doesn’t want them shackin’ up in the tents and breeding, so he gets me and the boys to catch ‘em and feed ‘em to Maksym and Athena.”

Yegor laughs his big, raucous laugh and slings his arm around Mickey’s shoulders. “You spoil those lions, Mick. Keep at it and they’ll be nothing but overgrown housecats.”

“Yeah, well, they’re stuck in those cages most of the time, might as well give ‘em something to look forward to.”

“Well, _I_ look forward to Demitri’s nasty fucking hooch--give it here.”

Yegor uncorks the jug and takes a massive gulp as he and Mickey head back into the rows of tents and trailers. Mickey looks over his shoulder at where the redheaded man had disappeared, and he’s not entirely sure why.

~~~

A few days later, it is considerably warmer. Mickey takes such a rare opportunity to give the elephants baths outside of their crates. Brandishing a fireman’s hose, it’s times like this that illicit the uncommon sound of laughter from Mickey. “You like that, Kryknitna?” He chuckles, spraying Kryknitna erratically as she tilts her head back and forth. “It’s been a long time since you got a bath, huh? You were starting to get musty, old lady.” 

Almost as if she understood the jab, Kryknitna lightly smacks Mickey with her trunk, causing Mickey to drop the hose. “Fuck!” He yells as he’s soaked by a barrage of water. By the time he finds the valve to turn off the hose, he’s dripping wet from head to toe. Kryknitna looks as though she’s smiling.

“You think that’s fucking funny? You’re going back inside then, you fucker.” 

Still smiling, Mickey leads Kryknitna back to her crate and goes to seek out a towel. The best he can find is a greasy rag and his jacket, soaked all the way through, so he decides to just light a cigarette and let the sun dry him. He sat back until the sun began to set, playing fetch with the dogs and smoking through his pack of cigarettes. He was just about to get back to work when he looked up and, in the shimmer of golden hour, he sees a head of red hair interrupt his daily scenery. The man from earlier that week, wearing the same shirt and jeans, ducks into Lischmann’s tent without so much as a knock on the vinyl. 

Mickey couldn't tear his eyes away. He considered for a moment giving in to his curiosity, but already his to-do list was backed up and he was still damp. Hoping it would dry him off and get his mind off the man, he kicked into high gear, breaking a sweat feeding the last of the animals and fueling the furnaces for the night. Instead of water, he ended his day covered in ash, blood and fur, exhausted when he finally went outside to feed the dogs. 

It seemed more than a coincidence that, as soon as Mickey sat down again, the flaps to Lischmann’s tent opened. Mickey watched intently, noticing the redheaded man repeat each action Mickey had seen him do days before. Stop. Breath. Look left, look right. All clear. Beeline to the big top. 

Without hesitation, Mickey gets up to follow him. His head had been muddled by this stranger for days, and he needed to let this mystery rest. For that, he needed to see what he wanted inside that big top. In reality, he knew all it would be was squatters sleeping under the bleachers or a sheltered place to shoot up, but something about the man he was following made him hope it was something new. He wanted to be surprised by something.

So he follows him to the big top again, this time checking if anyone is following _him,_ and manages to duck inside the tent unseen. He nestles into the shadows at the edge of the circular space, peering out as the man walks to the center of the stage area. Long, emerald green aerial silks hang from the ceiling, left secured so the aerialists could rehearse in the morning. The man holds a length of them in his hands, thumbing over the fabric with strange adoration. He tugs at one, testing its security, then the other. Then he hoists himself up.

Mickey had been a carny for eleven years. He has seen every aerial act under the sun, including upwards of twenty different silk numbers, but watching this man dance alone in a quiet room was different. Mickey had never watched someone dance and _feel_ it. The man moved fluidly like blood coursing through a vein, hot and red, his body slipping and flowing against the silks with ease. It was a spectacle so powerful, so sensual, and wrought with such raw emotion that Mickey could hear every grunt and slip of fabric amplified. His hair like amber and his skin white as marble, the light in the tent accentuated each line of each muscle as it stretched and released to create movements so ethereal and precise that Mickey thought he was watching some bird of undiscovered species. A beautiful, featherless flighted creature.

Suddenly, Mickey's personal show is interrupted by slow, coarse clapping. The redhead’s head snaps out of his body’s fluid line in shock, and he loses his center of balance. He slips and tumbles down the silks, landing level to Master Lischmann’s velvet slippers. 

“Bravo, young man. Bravo.” Lischmann’s clear voice rings through the tent as he walks languidly towards the man. From his place in the shadows, Mickey saw the light glint wildly off his garish silk bathrobe, giving him an air of misplaced kingliness in this dusty old tent. 

The man scrambles to his feet. “I-I’m sorry, sir. I just…I’ve always wanted to…”

His back to Mickey, Lischmann makes the unmistakable sound of a smirk. “No need to apologize.” He says lazily. “I suspected you were up to something the last time you serviced me, which is why I asked you back tonight. That, and you have a somewhat...talented mouth.” His profile briefly has Mickey sneering at that dirty Cheshire smile. Dirty dog.

“I’m actually very pleased to find you here.” Lischmann continues. “I expected you to be searching for our safes.”

The man clenches his jaw. “I’m not that kind of man, sir.”

“You would never find them, anyway.” Lischmann walks ever closer to the man. “Not that it matters now, as I’m prepared to offer you a share of the profits.”

The man’s expression twists from defence to a great wariness. “What are you talking about?”

“What is your name, son?”

“I told you already.” He spat. “It’s Curtis.”

Lischmann holds his chin as though examining merchandise. “Your real name.” He insists. “The one your mother gave you.”

The three men hover in a moment of silence as the man defiantly jerks his chin from Lischmann’s fingers. He stares at the ground, clearly weighing his options in his head. Finally, he allows Lischmann the smallest side glance. “Ian.”

“Ah, Ian. Splendid!” If it was even possible, Lischmann brightened up even more. “Here is my predicament, Ian. My most trusted aerialists are ageing and those coming up behind them are, well…children. Dreamers who did not anticipate my circus to uphold such strict standards for art and sport. I could use someone like you: strong, talented, passionate.”

“How do you know I’m those things?” Ian questioned, back up like a cornered cat.

Lischmann scoffs condescendingly. “You’re a dirt poor prostitute who fucked me to sleep, forgot to take your payment and trespassed on my property in order to dance these very silks. If that isn’t passion, I don’t know what is.” He moves in so close to Ian that they were sharing the same breath. “Join my family, Ian, and the silks…they will be yours.”

Before Ian could respond, Lischmann put his lips to his ear and whispered something Mickey couldn’t possibly hear. When he moved back, all spunk and defiance had been wiped from Ian’s face. Instead, it was so slack and colourless he could do nothing but nod. Mickey felt a shiver run up his spine as Lischmann enveloped Ian almost possessively. Another whisper and Ian nodded again, this time with a serious look on his face. Lischmann undid his robe and pushed Ian to his knees.

By then, Mickey had already left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading - kudos and comments are greatly appreciated if you feel so inclined <3


	2. Dirty Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s):  
> \- Smut (briefly)

By the time they pitched the tents in Detroit, Ian’s presence dominated the circus. Fresh signs on every other wall screamed yellow and red with the new branding Lischmann created just for him. _Now Presenting: The Phoenix! A Flying Spectacular on Wings of Fire!_ The new flyers promised shimmering red silks and death-defying trapeze stunts, featuring Lischmann’s precious Phoenix as the tour de force of an explosive evening. Their opening night in Detroit would be the debut of the new act and everyone was thrilled to see the turnout. Everyone but Mickey.

Because it’s his job, Mickey helps paste up the signs in silence. He listens to the showgirls swoon over the handsome new performer and the aerialists gossip with jealousy, but only because he cannot physically close his ears. He wants to--he wants desperately not to care--but the camp is so abuzz with the latest on Ian that Mickey’s head feels like a beehive. 

The first night in Detroit, he lay sleepless in his cot, mulling over memory bites of fabric slipping over flawless white and speckled skin. He hadn’t seen Ian once since that night—rigorous practice was not uncommon for newcomers in the more athletic spectacles—but even if he did, he knew he wouldn’t be able to meet his eyes. He would be too busy looking at his arms, and his legs and his lean, solid chest. 

Mickey’s mind’s eye wandered up to his collarbone as his hand slipped into his underwear. He stroked his cock to the image of Ian’s craning neck--imagining tasting each freckle with the curve of his tongue, licking up to the line of his jaw, softened by laboured, open-mouthed breaths. He imagined it was Ian’s thumb passing over the ridge of his head and fondling the slit, hands of beautiful, clean skin made filthy wet by the hot desire coming from deep in Mickey’s gut. Pulling and pressing with a desperate need, Mickey came the moment his mind showed him eyes he’d never seen up close. Were they green or blue? Eyelashes dark or translucent? It was a question poorly answered by Mickey’s climaxing grunt of pleasure, followed by a sticky hand and a deeply confusing feeling. 

“Damn it.” He cursed on a breath, placing his head to his pillow as he rode the disturbing cocktail of oxytocin and turmoil. This wasn’t the way Mickey was supposed to conduct himself. He fucked nameless men and masturbated to faceless bodies, but he never touched anything he’d remember. He never allowed himself to get caught by the lying lure of monogamy--the dangerous construct of human love. But, as though he’d done something to be punished for, he couldn’t ignore the face of Ian as hard as he tried. He couldn’t ignore the swelling of both his heart and groin, or the ache enveloping his chest when he heard his name in the air. 

So, when he goes to meet Demitri the next morning, he begs whoever up there was listening to give him one, single day of rest from hearing about Ian. “Hey, man.” He greets Demitri cooly. The older man gestures for Mickey to hand him a rag, his dark, calloused hands glistening with blood from the lions’ breakfast. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

“Not much, kid.” He sniffs, tossing the bloody rag under the nearest trailer. “The animals are pretty much dealt with for the show tomorrow night, so we got ourselves the day off between feeding times. You can take care of supper, since you slept through breakfast.”

“Sure.” Mickey grumbles, upset not because he slept until noon, but because even pushing his duties off didn’t allow him a workload hefty enough to keep his mind out of Ian’s pants. 

Demitri lit a cigarette. “S’not for a while though. You wanna go watch the last rehearsal up in the big top? Renaldo said they’re doing a full run with that new kid. The redheaded silks guy.”

Even with the man he would call his uncle, if he were so sentimental, he couldn’t escape. “Fuck no, man.” He seethes, perhaps too bitterly. “Fuckin’ kid has been here a month, hasn’t been in a show or even helped out with the fucking...cotton candy truck or any shit like that, and everyone around here is acting like his shit don’t stink.”  
Demitri doesn’t say anything but raises his eyebrows as he takes a drag. “Alright then.” He coughs. “Not getting involved. I’ll see you for cage checks at the end of the night.”

“Yeah. See you.”

Demitri nods, throwing his cigarette butt to the soil and walking off towards the big top. Mickey, his chest flushed with embarrassment, felt angry and foolish. He was coming unravelled, his mind fucking with his heart fucking with his dick--the frustration engulfed him so entirely that he felt like ripping all the grass from the ground and stuffing it in his mouth to muffle his screams. Instead, he kicked the side of the nearest crate, the metal wobbling angrily and vibrating all through Mickey’s tense muscles. “Fucking men. Fucking stupid.” Mickey spat under his breath, wishing he’d just minded his own business all those days ago and kept himself from being consumed by this one, dancing fool.

“Oh, my.” Chimes a small laugh from behind him. “You seem to be in an especially bad mood today, Mikhailo. And that’s saying a lot for you!”

Draped in thrifted mink and strings and strings of plastic costume jewelry, Madame Devereux is one of the few women in the circus that found Mickey charming. While most found him to be a filthy, brutish man--which he, and his proclivity to having a penis inside him, did not mind in the slightest--Madame Devereux always approached him with hooded eyes, smeared with blue eyeshadow and glitter. “Mornin’ Madame,” Mickey grunted in response.

“Afternoon, Mikhailo.” She took his hand gently. “What has you so tense, my love? Perhaps I could bring you back to my tent for a spell.”

Mickey looked at the woman, her wrinkles pushed upwards by her sly smile, and considered it for a moment. It would be nice to break up his reeling. “Well…” He huffed. “No. No, that shit is pointless.”

“Mickey.” Madame coos, her trinkets and jewels tinkling suggestively against themselves. “You know it makes you feel better about things. Whether you believe it or not, it may help clear your troubled mind.”

Mickey sighed in resignation. _What could it hurt?_ He thought to himself, allowing the elderly woman to lead him breezily past the food stalls and to a large, purple tent between the funhouse and Port-A-Potties. He peered up at the large, painted sign suspended above the entrance. _Madame Devereux’s House of Fortunes. Palm readings: $1.00. Tarot readings: $2.50._

“Just for the record,” Mickey says, sitting in a cheaply ornate, purple plush chair. “I don’t believe in all this voodoo, spirit shit. Only reason I keep coming back here is it’s something to do.” 

“Mmhmm.” Her silver hair shining lavender against the shimmering purple drapery adorning the tent, Madame Devereux hums with a smile, knowing fully well that Mickey was lying. What Mickey won’t admit is that Madame Devereux likes him simply because she knows him. He has his fortune read by her practically once a month, and she knows without him telling her that he seeks out the cards for guidance. When he has violent feelings and fears becoming his father, he asks the cards if his fate is tainted. When he has night terrors, or an animal gets sick or dies: whether it be divinity or fated chance, Mickey often needed something bigger than himself to help him understand his tumultuous life. This was one of those times. “What would you like tonight, Mikhailo, my love? Do you have time for the Celtic Cross or just a three-card reading this time?”

“Three cards is fine.” Mickey shuffles anxiously in his chair, his pride rejecting the idea of relaxation. “I just...something’s got me all fucked up and I need a push in...fuck, in any direction.”

“Alright.” She holds the deck in silence for a moment, whispering incoherently to herself as she blesses the cards. Holding them as if they were holy, she then hands them gently to Mickey. “You know what to do, son.”

As he’d done many times before, Mickey cupped the deck in his hands with uncharacteristic tenderness, feeling the edges slide along the rough lines in his fingers. Closing his eyes, he pictures a countdown from seven to one, focusing on a single, fraught question more with each number. _What is it about this strange, aching need I have for this stranger?_ He pleads, shuffling the deck until his fingers magnetize to three different cards. Yes, they felt right. He hands them back to Madame Devereux and she lays them face down in front of him.

“Now, as you know, this first card here represents your past.” 

Mickey nods as she reveals the first card, the upside-down figure of a nude woman, balanced with a jug of water in each hand. “The Star reversed. Not surprising.” Madame says calmly. “To be brief, The Star, when reversed, represents hopelessness, despair, and loss of faith. It suggests a sense of defeat--the feeling that everything and everyone is against you and you cannot overcome the challenges the world serves you.” Her long, pink manicured nail taps the flipped head of the woman. “Somewhere in your past, you lost hope in yourself or a certain aspect of your life. Perhaps that’s what led you here to us. Perhaps you lack faith to this very day.”

“Hmm.” Mickey tries not to react, but the recognition he feels in the card flows from his chest, up to his throat and into his eyes. Madame smiles knowingly. 

“Moving on.” She says. “This second card represents the present.” Flipping over the middle card, she reveals the skeletal Death, riding on horseback and brandishing his sickle with an air of ancient power. “Ah. Death.” She grins.

“The misunderstood card.” Mickey chimes in, perking up. “Never gotten this one before.”

“You’re actually quite lucky to have pulled this, Mikhailo. Death is a powerful transitionary card, predicting the end of a major phase in life, followed by the beginning of another. Your present is subject to a life-changing transformation, wherein one version of yourself must die to allow growth, release and rebirth. Ultimately, you may have to let go of something to fully move on to greener pastures. ” 

Mickey breathes out a bitter laugh. “I’m not really the ‘changing’ type, but alright.”

“You might surprise yourself.”

Mickey grunts in response, settling back into his faux grumpiness. “What about the last one?” He asks, unable to fully hide his interest. “The future?”

Madame Devereux slowly turns the third and final card and both she and Mickey frown at the resulting image. A man lies face down in the dirt, shrouded in a red cloth and impaled down his spinal cord--from neck to tailbone--with ten towering swords. Mickey’s arms prickle with goosebumps as an ominous feeling saturates the air in the tent.

“The Ten of Swords,” Madame says warily. “This card is one of ruination. Disaster and finality. The swords are yours to wield, but an inexperienced swordsman does not foresee the possibility that they could be used to his detriment. Your future holds a force of such extreme magnitude that it may knock you to the lowest point of your existence, but…” Madame taps her nail to the image of a sunrise, below a thick fog of black despair. She looks Mickey straight in the eyes, her spirit reaching out in a final connective moment. “Even though it cannot get worse,” she murmurs, filling Mickey to overflowing with a strange mix of dread and blind hope. “The sun still rises.” 

He goes to leave the tent more unsettled than he had been going in. More confused than before, unsure if his redheaded mindfucker was an angel of faith, a harbinger of change or a sword in his backbone. Mickey had survived so far in a decade of ambivalence--always moving but never letting anything move him. He wasn’t happy by any means--he wasn’t even sure if he knew the meaning of the word--but he wasn’t miserable, and he didn’t know if he wanted to risk losing the strange, peripatetic security that his troubled mind had grown to depend on. No, he decides as he nudges open the purple vinyl: he wasn’t going to do it. He would avoid the star, the reaper and the ten swords with all might. He would keep on land with his animals and Ian would keep to the sky with his wings of silk; there was no reason they ever had to meet. There was no reason to change his life for a feeling. The Phoenix would stay a late-evening treat for Mickey’s dirty dreams, that’s all. 

Eyes to the ground, he busts out of the tent, trying to leave his worries behind him, when his nose is crooked by a collision with someone’s rock hard collarbone. “Fuck!” He yelps, stumbling back and checking his nose for blood. His hand comes back clean, but he still looks up with a snarl, anger bubbling up to burn his surprise aggressor. But when his red eyes settle, his throat freezes solid. 

“Oh, shit sorry.” Ian says, laughing sheepishly and rubbing his chest where Mickey’s face had made contact. His alabaster skin was splotchy red from the ginger hair peeking from his collar to the muscular slope of his throat, almost as if his capillaries were on display for Mickey to see. If he was so pale as that, Mickey’s whole body would have been scarlet with how hard his heart pounded.

Finally snapping out of his panicked trance, Mickey bristles almost performatively. “Watch where you’re going.” He spits, touching Ian as little as possible as he pushes past him, desperately needing to get away before he did anything he would regret.

But, just like in his imagination, Ian has the predilection to torture Mickey at every turn. “Hey, wait.” He calls and, where his hand catches his shoulder in passing, electricity shoots into Mickey’s lungs so that he has to catch his breath. “I don’t think we’ve met yet. I’m…”

“Ian, yeah, I know.” Mickey grunts, his body so tense he cannot bring himself to meet Ian’s eyes. Blue or green, he knew that his fitful heart wouldn’t be able to withstand the answer. To maintain his dignity, he defaults to the thing he knows best: making people want to walk away. “The Phoenix or some shit. Big fucking hotshot around here.” He growls condescendingly. 

But Ian doesn’t seem to be all that fazed. “Um…hah. I wouldn’t say that.” He chuckles. Mickey catches the curve of a smile out of the corner of his eye. “I’m more of a trainee really, I don’t know why Lischmann is making such a big deal of me.” Suddenly, the smile twists into a filthy, toothy smirk. “Well, actually, he’s probably over-excited because now he can make me suck his dick without payin’ me.”

Hearing Ian match Mickey’s harshness, almost like a challenge, even Mickey’s stubbornness can’t keep him from looking up into such a goofily smiling face. “What?” Ian laughs at what he reads as shock on Mickey’s slack face. “Don’t think I strut around here without earning my keep. We all make sacrifices to get where we’re going, I’m not ashamed of mine.”

In an instant, Mickey wanted to tell him he watched him dance that night in Chicago. He wanted to tell him he shouldn’t have to make sacrifices—Lischmann should be so lucky to just be able to watch him dance. To know that such captivating beauty exists in this disgusting, sordid world they lived in. But he couldn’t get it out--he had never been so articulate, even without paralytic eyes numbing his face and hands. They were green, with eyelashes long and strawberry blonde, made feathered out by the tilt of his smile.

Mickey’s silent trance and the uncontrollable dip of his eyes to Ian’s lips made Ian see it too. He inhaled as he felt the string of tension tightening between them, cutting through the fog of their breath in the chilled air. His smile dropped soon after, gaze as steady and unyielding as Mickey. The air grew still, the lightbulbs that obscured the murky blue sky illuminating the wordless connection shared between the two men. Mickey reached his limit when Ian bit his lip in anticipation.

“I’m Mikhailo.” He eventually got out, low and strained in his throat.

Ian hummed in acknowledgment. “Meek-kai-low?” 

“Or Mickey. Lots of Slavs here, so most people call me Mikhailo, but Mickey works too.”

“Right.” Ian’s mouth puffs out a laugh, but his eyes remain constant on Mickey’s. “Mickey.”

“Yeah.” Mickey finally turns away, scratching his head to distract from the intensity of the moment. “Um, do you…do you want to have a drink with me?” He mutters, almost too softly to hear. “I know a place.”

Ian smiled that dirty, crooked smile, and Mickey felt the last tug and snap of his self-control disconnecting from his body. There was no going back.

“Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading - kudos and comments are well appreciated if you feel so inclined <3


	3. Watch Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s)  
> \- Smut (anal, light S&M)

Ian was an incubus. Standing naked in a discarded tiger cage, the light of a single oil lamp showed that he wielded nine inches and ten digits practiced in sexual sadism. He was a creature of fervour--an animalistic devil of lechery--dangerous to invite into your home. Mickey would have liked to say he expected it--that he was unfazed by such a foreseen revelation--but the moment Ian looked at him like he would tear him apart, blood convulsed through his body in a way he’d never felt before. Ian slammed Mickey against the cage so violently that Mickey held his breath as to not interrupt the motions. His skin burned hot against the cold metal, condensation combining with a burgeoning sweat as he let out a precursory gasp, preparing his lungs for what Ian’s hungry eyes promised him. 

Ian’s forceful hand bit into Mickey’s thigh, lifting it up around his hip to expose Mickey’s frenzied neediness. “Hmph. Cute.” Ian snarls, baring his teeth as he trailed one, expert finger up the line of Mickey’s inner thigh. Mickey shuddered, heat rushing through him like he was a human boiler--churning and churning, looking for some kind of release.

“Fucking…” He tenses and moans as Ian strokes from his taint up the backside of his cock. “Fucking get on with it, man.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Mickey bristles. “The _fuck_ you--”

Before he can finish, Ian seizes Mickey’s wrists and, with a single, dominating blow, pins Mickey’s hands above his head. Mickey goes to object, but all that comes out is a strangled breath as Ian pushes a finger up inside him. “I said,” Ian seethes and, without thinking, Mickey leans forward, magnetized by his tongue. “Shut the _fuck_ up and let me fuck you.”

So Mickey does, and it earns him the crook of Ian’s finger against the muscles inside him. Then another finger, pressing and searching for the keys to Mickey’s soundless cries and faltering curses. Ian’s mouth and tongue beat a wet path of sensation up Mickey’s neck, so disorienting that Mickey’s hand could only fumble over Ian’s chest. He managed to ghost over his nipple, using what was left of his boiling mind to wring it between his thumb and finger. Ian’s breath blows hot on Mickey’s neck as he inserts another finger in approval.

Getting impatient, Mickey gasps out something strangled and sharp, translated to, _“Please.”_ He throws away his pride and surrenders his body to Ian, obeying Ian’s hands as they turned him around and bent him into the crossed metal bars. His hands grasp the bars so tightly his tendons bulge red, but no pain could be felt over Ian being thrust inside him all at once. 

“Fuck!” He began to yell in surprise, but surprise that quickly turned into overwhelming pleasure as Ian rocked in and out with a rough, feral rhythm. “Fuck.” His breathing quickened, feeling his broiling blood surge with more and more scalding heat and pressure. The heat rises and rises and rises until, untouched, the thermometer bursts. 

Coming himself into the straw and dirt, he feels Ian fill him with more than a pulsating, mindbending euphoria. Ian huffs, pressing into Mickey’s hips as they both let the heat rush from their pores and turn their eight pounds of skin weightless. 

Drained and pulled out, both men lazily pulled on their undergarments and fell, panting, to the floor. Mickey pulls out a cigarette, offering another to Ian, and grins as Ian brushes the mud and grass from Mickey’s knees while he lights it.

Taking a long, long drag, Ian looks around the cage. “What is this place, anyway? An old animal crate?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, regaining the rhythm of his breath. “Back when the circus only had a coupl’a lions and tigers, they only used these one-cage crates. Lischmann got rid of most of ‘em when we started using the big trucks, but keeps this one just in case he goes crazy with those exotic pet guys down in Florida.”

“It’s nice in here. Almost like a whole other little world.”

Taking in the four barred walls and the metal crate encasing them, Mickey nods idly. “It’s where I come to be alone.” He admits, it being something he doesn’t divulge often. And by often, he means never, as it was called a secret base for a reason. For some reason, he didn’t mind Ian knowing--he didn’t mind the thought of Ian seeking him out here when he’s tired of everyone else.

Ian smiled, reading his face through its tough exterior. “Alone? That didn’t feel very alone to me.” He teased.

Shoving Ian’s shoulder a little, Mickey let a small laugh slip out. “Fuck you. Obviously I make an exception now and again.” A lie, but a necessary one for Mickey to keep his composure.

“You like being alone?” Ian asks.

“Mmhmm.” Mickey watches the smoke curl from his cigarette as an excuse not to look at Ian, beginning to shrink from the attention. “Not a big fan of people. Helps that people aren’t big fans of me either.”

“You’re in a strange business then. Performing for people.”

“Nah, I’m not a performer,” Mickey smirks at the ludicrous idea. “I take care of the animals. The elephants, the big cats, the birds. That kind of shit.”

“So you’re an animal guy?”

“The fuck is this? Twenty questions?” Mickey scoffs, but Ian just waits in silence until he answers. He rolls his eyes to keep some semblance of fortitude. “Fine. Yeah, I guess I am. Any more questions, Officer, or am I free to go? Fuck.”

Ian grins impishly, the little bit of demon left in him prodding at Mickey boldly and brashly. He leans in as though every word he said was integral to the moment. “Where are you from?” He pressed, almost like it was nothing. “Like, before the circus?”

But it wasn’t nothing. In fact, it was exactly what it took to end Mickey’s high and invite back the fear he’d felt before. “I don’t talk about before the circus.” He spits, his stomach tying into knots as he tries to regain footing against Ian’s magnetism. 

“Why not?” Ian presses, only leaning closer in. His nearness is warm and comforting, and it makes Mickey feel so defenceless that he could have been sick.

He stumbles to his feet, desperately needing to break the tether. “I just don’t, okay?” He snarls, reaching for his trousers. “Fuckin’ drop it.”

The room is quiet as Mickey redresses, but he still feels the unsettling needling of Ian’s eyes on his back. “I’m from Chicago.” Ian finally says. Mickey, pausing with only one suspender clasped, turns in surprise. “I have five siblings.” He continues fervently. Pertly. “And I’m sick in the head. They call it bipolar disease, the quacks. They locked me in a nuthouse when I was fifteen and I ran off as soon as I got out, went into the streets. I’ve fucked more men than I can count. A couple hundred, probably. Killed some too. Some by accident, some in self-defence…one just to see if I could.”

Through all this, Ian maintains eye contact. Every muscle in his face is tense, almost as if he’s testing something, but Mickey’s mouth is gaping open. Not knowing what to say--how to react, how to hide the conflict that was skyrocketing inside him--he closes it into a grimace.

“The…the fuck are you telling me all this for?” He barks, tugging his other suspender over his shoulder and swiping his jacket from the dirty crate floor. “You don’t even know me.”

Ian looks at him. Mickey waits for the usual end; he looks for tears or a frown. He looks for Ian to run away from him as fast as possible, cursing the day he ever met a man so vulgar and ugly inside as Mickey. But none of those familiar images came. Instead, Ian leans forward, his arms crossed on his knees. When he smiled, it was meant only to provoke him. “Just laying out the game. Up to you if you want to play.”

Just like that, the connection between them rematerializes in iron instead of string, filling Mickey again with white-hot frustration. The heat only smelts the iron into bars that cage Mickey in the fray of his own turmoil. He hated the cocky bastard looking up at him, but only because he so pathetically yearned to be bitten by his raw tongued words. He ached for the insolence of his grin--the absolute disregard of the two decades of work put into building Mickey’s defences. With one look, Ian was able to obliterate them, leaving Mickey naked for everyone to see. Even if it was only Ian in the room--even if it thrilled him beyond belief--Mickey didn’t know how to live so vulnerably. 

So he lashes out, barking like a creature touched too soon. “The fuck you talkin’ about, game? You know what? Fuck this. If you get tired of swinging your dick around in Lischmann’s gaping, ancient asshole, you know where to find me. If not, stay the fuck away from me with this slumber party bullshit. I don’t need to _know_ you to _fuck_ you, alright?”

“Mmhmm, right.” Ever calm, Ian smirks, tapping the apples of his cheeks. “You look a little red there, Mick. Sure you mean all that?”

“What? Re--oh, God fucking _damn it!_ ” 

He had been _blushing_ the entire time. Blushing, like a flustered teenage girl telling her fourth fuck she’s a virgin. Infuriated and embarrassed, Mickey storms out of the crate trailing a ruffled stream of profanities behind him. Ian’s laugh is loud enough to eat them up, playfully sing-songing after the hopeless handler.

“See you tomorrow, Mickey!”

~~~

Opening day, Mickey walked the grounds through a blur. The night before, in his furious and agitated state, Mickey found himself prepping the show animals until he had done the whole next day’s work in the run of a few hours. He stayed up into the night talking to Kryknitna until she turned her back on him in her cage, tired of listening to Mickey’s nonstop complaining about the man with the patronizing smile. 

“You look like shit,” Demitri said in the morning. Having not slept for more than an hour, Mickey, with his slouched shoulders and sleepless eyes, indeed looked like shit. Though he wouldn’t say it out loud, it made Demitri a little amused to see his usually headstrong and high-strung friend so utterly totalled. “I went to shovel the dog shit off the pathways before the gates opened, but looks like it was already done. You do it last night?”

“Yeah.” Mickey yawns.“That, and I got all the leashes and shit ready. Prepped the elephants. Brushed the lions. All that shit.”

“Jesus Mick, everything?”

“I had a lot on my mind. Couldn’t sleep.”

Demitri knew better than to ask. “Well, I guess I’ll take care of all the feeding today then. You can be on Mimi duty.”

“Seriously?” Mickey groaned. Mimi was the circus’ gyrfalcon and the only daytime attraction the handlers were in charge of. Usually, she would perch on Demitri’s arm as he walked the premises, stopping for guests to gawk at and feed the monstrous, rare bird. It was a job Mickey avoided at all costs.

“Don’t whine, man. It’s a cushy job meant for old fuckers like me. I’m doing you a favour.” Demitri pulls a thick leather glove from his toolbelt and tosses it to Mickey. “I was going to do it since you always manage to scare the kids off, but I don’t know if I trust you to not get your arm bitten off falling asleep on the job today.”

Mickey looked out towards the carnival grounds, already bustling with people at half-past eleven, and slipped on the glove in tired defeat. “Fine. I’ll go get her.” 

For the next few hours, Mickey did his laps, turning his head when people stopped to gawk and take photographs of Mimi. As Demitri had predicted, few people dared to approach Mickey and several children hid behind their mothers at the sight of his tattoos and stone-carved face, but Mickey didn’t mind it much. In fact, he preferred it, spending his day walking in silence with Mimi. Her silent majesty seemed to calm his mind and, as he shared bits of his sandwich with her, he had almost forgotten the knot in his stomach.

When evening fell, he returned to the animal crates and began helping Demitri move the show animals to their places in the back of the big top. Clasping harnessing and securing leashes, Mickey’s mind is blissfully empty--focussed on his animals, as it should be. As he had been all those years before Ian had arrived. The peace is short-lived however as, when Mickey looks up for a moment, Ian’s eyes meet his from across the tent. 

Naked above his tight, red pants--hooked at the feet around black ballet slippers--he stares at Mickey tauntingly, Lischmann wrapped around him vampirically. Lischmann’s hand, claw-like, grabs Ian’s ass and Ian smirks, arching his neck back shamelessly as the ringmaster kisses his throat. Sloppily, over and over, reminiscent of what Ian had done to him just last night. Mickey’s backside aches in remembrance as he turns beet red and scrambles to finish saddling the horses. 

He tried to deter himself with those feelings of confusion and fear. He tried to remember the danger of an iron connection--of the Ten of Swords. Disaster. Nothing good could come from succumbing to this need again. Nothing good could come from pining for Ian, with his kinky penchant for torment and inexplicable, illogical magnetism. Ian was right, it _was_ a dangerous game—a game of cat and mouse between Mickey and his inability to keep from something so unpredictable, sensual, blatant and addictive. He didn’t need it--he knew he didn’t-- but the possibility of mutual destruction only made Mickey want it more. 

He dared look up once more and saw that Ian was still looking at him. The previous act was shuffling back backstage, so Ian stood ready at the foot of the ladder leading up into the steel rafters. He looked not upwards, but over his shoulder, mouthing to Mickey:

_Watch me._

Then he runs like a fox onto the branching metal and into the throws of the show. Unable to not watch him go, Mickey’s hands moved before his brain could agree, peeking through the sparkling red curtain hiding them all from the audience. His breath catches as murmurs flood the stands, every eye in sight glued to the redheaded man floating gracefully down from the ceiling, suspended by shining red silks.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Lischmann announces, his coattails swinging about in their usual fashion. “Presenting: The Phoenix!” 

The welcoming applause cues the band to pick up their instruments, soon filling the tent with sounds that couldn’t have possibly compared to the beauty of even Ian’s intro. He is just as captivating as the first time Mickey saw him dance in the silence of the nighttime, but this time he is supercharged by the brightness of the lights and the swelling of the music. Once his feet touch the ground it’s only for less than a second, barely using the floor to launch himself into the air, flying on red wings of silk. Mickey forgets to exhale as Ian’s body careens over a world that may as well disappear, undeserving of the way he moves like a bird with indestructible wings of weightless limestone, bathing in rushing licks of flame with the speed and grace of an immortal.

Though even his eyes burned at the sight, Mickey could not tear them away.

“Mick! Mickey!” Demitri yelled, dousing him back to reality. “Snap out of it! Help me out with Kryknitna!” 

Reluctantly, Mickey peels back to help hoist the showgirls onto the backs of the elephants, still reeling with sunstroke from what he had seen through the curtains. In what seemed like a moment, Mickey is leading Kryknitna by her thick leather leash, the parade of elephants following behind, and Ian has disappeared back into the rafters. This is Mickey’s least favourite part of his job, subjecting his small body to the throng of the show’s finale, but it was a necessary evil. He was the only one Kryknitna would let lead her, so he was forced out of his shadow at the end of every show. The heat of the lights and the roar of the crowd overwhelmed him--it was a heat unlike Ian’s, sweltering and suffocating instead of bright light baking him from the inside. He clenched his teeth through it. That is, until he looked up to see a flash of white and red flying the trapeze.

Mickey watches at the culmination of the show as Ian releases the ankles of another aerialist, trusting only physics to place him safely and softly on Kryknitna’s head. Mickey startles, ready to calm Kryknitna if she tried to shake him off, but there was no need. Sliding down her trunk like walking on air, Ian has complete control of Kryknitna even as he floated on the end of her trunk next to Mickey. All the heat--the light of Ian, the crowd, the noise--culminated in Mickey’s gut as Ian discreetly brushed his hand against Mickey’s shoulder. 

“Ready, girl?” Ian whispers, patting Kryknitna on the end of her trunk. A yelp gets stuck in Mickey’s throat as the elephant flicks her trunk up and sends Ian flying. It quickly turns to awe as Ian flips easily through the air and disappears into the rafters, only Mickey seeing him land. He scurried along the thin beam with ease, done for the night. 

Mickey finished the show himself in a daze. He had never seen Kryknitna listen to anyone but him--show love to any man but him. He felt jealousy he’d never known, and he wasn’t sure who exactly he was jealous of. The man or the elephant?

With the show over and the last of the guests ushered out of the gates, Mickey and Demitri settle the animals for the night. They work in silence, Mickey too exhausted by his own mind and body to notice Demitri glancing at him suspiciously. “You alright, kid?” He finally asks, throwing an armful of harnesses into the show trunk. “You seem...distracted.”

Mickey follows behind with an array of flashy accessories he had spent the last hour plucking off the elephants. “Nah, man. I’m fine.” He deadpans. “I told you this morning. Didn’t sleep.” 

Demitri watched him haphazardly store the glinting shawls and baubles, waiting for him to say more, but he never did. “Alright then.” He concedes, wiping his hands with a rag before tossing it to Mickey. “I told Lady Red I’d go to her tent when we finished up, so I’d better hurry off. Last time I made her wait she tried to stick those sausage fingers of hers up my ass. All three of ‘em!”

Catching the rag and patting the sweat off his neck, Mickey smirks. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Night, Mick.”

“Night.” 

Demitri walks off, and Mickey sighs as he watches him go. He didn’t know how much longer he could do this--how much of his regular life he could salvage in the face of the armageddon Ian had brought upon his quiet, solitary world. He leans against the open frame of the crate, a cigarette hanging from his mouth when he knows what has to happen. 

In the distance, Mickey sees a spot of red coming towards him, and he doesn’t turn to run. All he can do is let it happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading - kudos and comments are well appreciated if you feel so inclined <3


End file.
